CHAPTER ONE
The thing was ancient, a Grumman amphibian that could have been flying before he
was born. Chipped paint, worn tyres, oil-streaked engine cowlings...
It was parked at the top of the ramp, half boat, half museum exhibit. It wasn't
the flight that worried him. He'd survived flying coffins in his time. It was
the grey feeling in his gut - as grey as the slate-coloured sky, as grey as the
sluggish sea that licked and sucked at the ramp like oil.
The sullen clouds were spoiling for a storm. A freshening wind tugged at the
brightly coloured pennants on the brightly painted shed that was the terminal.
The other passengers were boarding. Four others only. Was it some kind of
charter flight?
He fell in behind the tall,
long-haired woman, eyes dropping to the movement of her hips as she stepped over
the raised door-sill into the hull. She was in superb shape for her age. Nature
had blessed her with a perfect rear - or perfect aerobics instructor. She must
have been fifty but had the body and skin most thirty-year-olds would have
killed for.
He stooped through the door himself,
hand cradling the shoulder-bag he used as his camera-case.
The interior of the plane was unlined except for a strip at window-level. He was
told where to sit and hunched in the excuse for a seat, feet straddling two
webbing covered boxes marked 'Great Barrier Island Store'.
Through the door space in the bulkhead, he could see into the cockpit. Worn
panels, primitive controls - like the cabin of a vintage truck.
One prop kicked, then another. The cabin shuddered, drummed with noise. Connor
liked machines and this veteran example was intriguing. You got around on video
shoots and he'd flown in everything from Iroquois to C-130s. But this was
something new. So why wasn't he enjoying it?
It wasn't the
grey sky or the flight across the gulf. It wasn't the assignment, which was
lucrative enough. Something was wrong. For no firm reason, instinct told him to
get out of the crate while he could. He pushed the feeling down. He was starting
to imagine things.
Run-up over, they trundled down
the ramp. Water thumped and sloshed against the hull. Through the flecked
window, Waitemata harbour was a smudge. Now, the wing was the only reality,
dipping and dunking its float.
The whine of the
engines changed. The pilot's hand moved from the throttles to check twin,
red-handled levers. Prop pitch? Mixture? Carb heat? Connor wasn't sure.
The altimeter was set on zero? Odd. Of course, sea level. That made adjustment
simple. He looked back along the double row of mostly empty seats. Just
five passengers on a run that stopped at Barrier Island - a place he'd been told
was very popular? Made no sense.
He frowned and
pulled out the brochure - the brochure for a resort no travel-agent knew. Thick
glossy stock. Four-colour photographs. It looked convincing enough... but his
stomach told him he shouldn't have come.
He went
over it again. The unexpected client with the super-heavyweight-class body. The
man, who said his name was Blore, had the broad, deep-toned face of an islander
and his intimidating bulk made Connor's Sydney office seem a cupboard. As he
sat, his thighs stretched his suit-pants like sausage skins. The chair creaked
but held, though the wood frame parted slightly on one side, exposing twin
dowels.
'It's a playground for the rich.' The voice
from the huge frame was oddly soft. '...bit north of Barrier Island. Know the
spot?'
'Can't place it.'
'Fifty miles from Auckland - last stop before Valparaiso.' The man aired a
crescent of amalgam to confirm his little joke. 'There are smaller islands in
the group, some of them private, like ours. Trouble is, we're the world's best
kept secret.' He placed the brochure on the table between them. 'We're looking
at several ideas for promotions. But first thing's a video for the travel
trade.'
Connor picked the brochure up. Eight pages
of tempting views. Delicate ferns beside a stream, a forest glade. 'Those pines
indigenous?'
'No. The place used to be covered with
Kauri. Superb wood. Slow growing, though, like your Huon pine in Tasmania. The
sealers and whalers logged it for sailing ships. Now a lot of islands are bare
except where they've planted pines. Great Barrier's mostly State forest.'
'Good weather?'
'Warmer than Auckland. But you
get big storms out there.'
Connor
glanced at the cover again. It showed a sheer rock peak of grey-brown stone
projecting from a sparkling sea. The caption proclaimed: 'T55 - Hedonist's
Hideaway'.
'Funny name for a resort.'
The man smiled but said nothing.
'You've done a good
job on the brochure but it still looks pretty remote.'
'That's its charm.'
'Who put you onto me?'
'Fellow at VideoFac called Brian. Said you'd handle the whole project.'
The name meant nothing but Connor continued. Perhaps the man had got the name
wrong. 'That's right. Concept to dubs. I hire in people and facilities, though
I've an off-line set-up here.' He pointed to the editing suite beyond the
sloping glass window of the sound booth.
The man nodded,
not that interested.
'What money are we talking?'
'Our budget's pretty flexible. But before we discuss that in detail, we need to
brief you fully on the island - let you talk to our people, look around...'
'Without seeing my reel?'
'I'm sure it's good. Why
not bring it with you? We could fly you there this Wednesday. Expenses paid, of
course.'
'Sorry. Got an S.R.A. job Wednesday.
They've scheduled special trains and we'll have our arses hanging out.
Twelve-hour-day with fourteen set-ups. Could manage it next week.'
Blore rubbed his teeth with his thumb. 'Bit of a problem there. The island
staff's on holiday next week. It really has to be this Wednesday.'
'Sorry about that.'
'Pity.' He jacked himself out of
the chair and the arms creaked like a cane lounge in a slimming club. His bulk
filled the room. 'Great shame. Great shame.' He fumbled for a business card.
'Well, if something loosens up...'
'I'll let you
know.'
'Good.' He extended his hand and Connor's
knuckles became painfully acquainted.
Something
loosened up, all right. The SRA shoot was cancelled. No explanation. Three days'
shooting - canned. He tried to talk it over with Tess.
She shrugged, 'Coincidence, that's all. Jobs get stopped.'
'They normally say why.'
'David, honestly... ' Her
arch look. She was eight years older and he never felt her equal. She gave the
impression to others that she'd married him to acquire a pet. At first he'd
found that amusing but it wasn't any more.
She
chased a last mung bean around her plate. 'It's probably internal politics. Why
be so suspicious?'
The word was one of her weapons.
He suspected she was seeing someone else, although, a year ago, she'd denied it.
Confronting her had soured things further. Now she rubbed it in - sure of her
independence, attractiveness, wit, of a mind faster than his that knew how to
belittle him, tease. For a year, she'd gone through the motions, playing the
game of affection too well - satirically, never letting up. Their marriage was
becoming a facade.
She said, 'If you distrust
absolutely everything you'll end up sitting in a corner with your knees under
your chin. And I'll visit you one a month on Fridays.'
This was another of her themes that he was too fearful to contend. She knew him
well - and where to insert the knife.
He let her
comment slide. Reacting made things worse. 'He's throwing around free tickets
and didn't even ask to see my stuff.'
'He's probably
not used to Sydney and doesn't know how things work here.'
'How'd he get on to me anyway?'
'You said he asked
someone at the video place...'
'There is no Brian at
VideoFac.'
'But that doesn't prove anything. He got
the name wrong, probably. People are hopeless with names.' She moved behind his
chair and started kneading his shoulders with firm hands. That was where the
stress started, she said - forehead, muscles behind the neck, between the
shoulder-blades. She was always telling him to relax, aware it made him tense.
'Cautious Connor. What are you worried about? Someone offers you a job and you
think it's a conspiracy.'
'It fits too well. Smells
like a con.' He knew it sounded lame, defensive.
'David, it's a job. Why not take it? You can certainly use the money. It's been
a while since you've had anything come good.' She'd said 'you', not 'we' -
another subtle dig. Her chiropractic practice made more most weeks than he
billed in a month and she never lost a chance to emphasize her success.
'So you think my imagination's working overtime?'
'It's on a twenty-four-hour shift!' She kissed the top of his head as one might
kiss a small child. 'Got to go.'
'Will you be late?'
'Could be. Bye.' She reached the door, looked back condescendingly. 'Do try to
understand that life... is for living.'
The twin radials roared as the relic
slapped its way across the bay. They still hadn't cleared the water. Perhaps
they were going to surf there.
The hull stopped
strumming beneath him. The spray, streaming across the window, cleared. They'd
lifted off - boat imitating bird. Unexpectedly, the wing-float swung up and out,
its strut nestling into a groove under the wing as it became a wing-pod.
Ahead, the co-pilot was winding a crank with a shaft that went vertically into
the bilge. Wheels? Trim? Everything about this flight was odd.
The needle inched around the altimeter as the chop below became a pattern. The
fuselage was straining every rivet, despite the shallow rate of climb. The plane
lurched in an air pocket and the wing above his window flexed then came back to
true, the float on the end of it shuddering. He hadn't seen the big man again.
He'd rung to say he could make it Wednesday and had asked again about the
budget. The man named double the sum he'd expected - enough fat for a full crew
plus air-fares. The thing sounded like a windfall.
His tickets arrived express-courier. It hadn't been the best of mornings. He'd
been depressed about a wife he wanted physically but didn't trust and about a
young video technician who longed to make docos for TV - a young man, now
thirty-five, with a home-based studio that ground out corporate videos. A man
who'd need a crippling overdraft to buy the latest editing gear if he intended
to keep up with the industry. It was crunch time. Get-with-it time or get left.
He'd wished he could rewind the last few years, stop-frame a few mistakes, cut
sequences and rewrite the ending with a positive, up-beat slant. Tess was right,
of course. He was stale. And, for years, he'd coasted on hope. Something had to
change. Something soon. Meanwhile, he had a job. The trip would do him good.
Through grey stratus, watery sun cast a glimmer on the sea below. A tip of rock,
partly covered with scrub, vanished as the wing-pod became a float. Below, tiny
islands studded the sea, some no more than jagged knobs that rose abruptly from
the water, surrounded by a frill of white foam, their peaks covered by tenacious
shrubs and trees.
The smaller islands became a huge
one, impossibly green, with wooded lower slopes and peaks receding into mist. By
an inlet that formed a harbour, a meadow sloped to the bay.
They were coming in to land. The hull beneath him skimmed the water, kissed it,
drummed along the tops of the crests then settled deep, pushing a steep wash
from the bow. In seconds, the water had slowed them to a drift and they were
floating in the calm of the bay. The antiquated engines were throttled back to a
chug as they headed toward a shallow beach. The co-pilot was winding the crank.
It had to be wheels. The side floats joined the wings again as they trundled
half onto dry sand.
There were fifteen minutes of
bustle as boxes were handed out on the beach. More freight came out of a hatch
on top of the nose. Milk-run over, the plane waddled back into the sea and
taxied to its take-off point. So much for Great Barrier Island. Next and last
stop - T55.
He glanced behind him, relieved to find
he was not alone. The four others were still aboard - two men and two women. He
felt better. But not much.